


.zendagi migzara.

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom!Will, Cannibalism, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, SOMEWHAT loosely based on canon timeline, SerialKiller!Will, Sex, Slow Build, Therapist!Hannibal, cannibal!will, handjobs, reverse au, top!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title Translation: <i> Life Goes On </i><br/>When the serial killer 'Red Handed Will', who has killed dozens, yet remains under the FBI radar goes for therapy with the lonely, bespectacled psychiatrist Doctor Hannibal Lecter, the men find themselves crossing the boundaries of justice, and friendship.<br/>God forbid they fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	.zendagi migzara.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, guys, I spent quite a lot of time on this, and I've reverted back to my old, straightforward writing style instead of the metaphorical poetic stuff I use. Here are some notes.  
> 1\. You're free to see the character as you like, but since Hannibal's glasses are mentioned quite a lot, I suggest using the image of Mads Mikkelsen in the Hunt (as shown in the cover picture). Will Graham looks pretty much the same, except without spectacles.   
> 2\. This writing style is unique to the stories I portray Will's POV, as opposed to the flowery, poetry style I use for Hannibal's POV.   
> 3\. I've tried to write Will's character as different from canon Hannibal's, as most reverse AUs just map Hannibal's characters on Will, and I don't like that much, so I created a different personality for him, far more human.  
> 4\. Hannibal obviously is slightly OOC in this, however, I've tried to write him quite in-character, especially his dialogue, etc.   
> 5\. The plot is quite loosely based on canon.   
> 6\. No, I'm telling you now, this is not one of my M.Night Shyamalan-esque plot twists, its actually a slow building romance story.

____________________

“Thank you for being on time, Mr. Graham.” The psychiatrist, Will noted, looked like any other, with grey-flecked brown hair and pupils too red to be black. He closes the door, and his hands are rough and worn – far too much for a white man who lived in absolute comfort. He smiles at Will Graham, and the FBI consultant (he feels a laugh bubbling in him) tries out a smile of his own.

“I like to be punctual.” Will admits. Maybe it was the difference in atmosphere, after all, the only time he had been to a psychiatrist’s office was to pull her tongue out and roast it on a bed of greens – but he felt a strange inclination to tell the truth. He has been abysmally out of practice for that, telling the truth. “Gives me a higher standing with whomever I’m visiting.”

“We have not even started the session, Mr. Graham.” Hannibal Lecter lets an easy smile drop onto his face. He looks as if his mouth was not made for smiling, yet had the laugh lines of a person who tries too hard to laugh.  Will curls his lips as he sits down, and crosses his legs.

There are ink-stains on Hannibal’s suit wrist.

He feels somehow superior.

“Could you tell me why Jack Crawford referred you to me?” Hannibal asked, his eyebrows rose – and was rewarded by a huff of sardonic laughter.

“Ah.” Will almost smiled again. “Old uncle Jack thinks I’m sick. Well. Unstable, anyway.”

Hannibal notes the feverish degree of Will’s shrug. The way his jaw clamps shut after every sentence like a man used to hiding trembling lips.

“And are you?” Hannibal pushes further. “Are you unstable?”

“Oh, I’m stable.” Will stared piercingly at Hannibal, blue eyes creating a sort of Atmosphere neither could escape, had they wanted to. “Stable as a rocking horse.”

__X

It is three weeks later, they are in the same place – same time. The room is slightly colder, Hannibal’s fire brighter, and the doctor was wearing an elegantly tailored plaid coat over black silk. Dandy, Will thought, curling his lip and brushing his hands over his own, rough plaid shirt. It makes him feel inadequate and he feels anger bubbling at his fingers. He must not kill – he must desist. His therapist’s glasses glinted in the firelight – expensive glasses with thin wire frames that looked as if they would be easily broken.

Will wants to grind the glass into dust.

“I hate Novembers.” He starts brusquely, crossing his legs and accepting the glass of wine that the psychiatrist handed him. “Cold. Wet, the month of birthdays and rain. Wet, wet, wet, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Hannibal smiles.  “That’s guaranteed. But other than the wetness, November is an indecisive month. As if it cannot decide between rain, or sleet or snow. It rages and rains, but sometimes the sun shines ineffectively. A very confused month.”

What’s your point, Will thinks. He has no time for Hannibal twirling around the bush.

“Is this a confusing month for you, Will?” Hannibal asks him.

“My life.” Will lets his words roll in his mouth, touching his tongue and glancing his teeth. “Has been a series of grey houses and police works and solving the crimes of broken men. Oh, I’m not _confused_.”

That’s the least of my problems, Will smiles, and thinks of the one problem that the spectacled, lithe therapist would never be able to solve.

Again, he notices the ink on Hannibal’s shirt cuffs. A different shirt, but there is still the presence of black ink.

“So, Doctor Lecter.” Will says conversationally, ignoring the wind attacking the roof of Hannibal’s comfortable house, diving through the windows and laughing like ghosts. No matter where he is, the wind always sounds like ghosts to Will. “I’ve heard from Alana about your culinary preferences.”

Hannibal laughs slightly, a genuine, papery laugh that Will never sees in the Behavioral Sciences unit. He stares at the expanse that is Hannibal’s eyes (not _into_ them, just at them) and wonders if there is such a thing as thawing what once has been frozen solid.

“I was thinking, maybe I could bring you a meal.” Will cocks his head to a side. He tries so hard not to associate himself with a murderer’s mannerisms but he has seen them all. He _is_ them all. “Something I’ve cooked. Just to see how my cooking fares, with a great culinary expert, eh?”

“You are welcome in my kitchen any time, Will.” Hannibal smiles again, and Will does not think of November, but March, of warmth and paper hats and before. “No matter how unorthodox the hour is.”

I am beginning to feel, Will thinks with a rush of anger.

I must _desist._

__X

Will Graham in the moonlight, and this is the only time the wind is not screaming ghostlike. There are days he wishes he could disappear through the skein of life but today he wants to feel red on his hands, he wants to kill and he wants bloodstains on his shirt cuffs. He reminds himself ungracefully of Hannibal’s shirtsleeves and the arbitrary ink stains on them. He wonders if the psychiatrist writes poetry, and incensed, he springs on his victim – there is no longer silence.

Scuffles as the man struggles under Will’s hands – there is no squealing, no screaming, and Will almost feels cheated as the way the man benignly allows himself to die under Will’s knife, his throat leaking blood. He covers his hands in the blood to remind himself about what he is, and in some odd way he feels better – less bright and vivid.

“I’m sorry.” Will says humorously as he cuts a large slice from the man’s thigh, and discards the rest of his body. Will does not kill people who are bad, or have committed misdeeds. He is aware that he is not God, oh no, he kills simply to eat. You could say he lived a hand to mouth existence. “I mean, if it was for myself, I would have used up your worthless organs for a stew. But this is for Hannibal, you know?”

Winston came bounding into the room, followed by two other specimens, large and drooling, as Will rubs spices into the red of the meat. The man with blood on his hands rolls his eyes dramatically; the scene is poignantly domestic as he chides Winston for putting his paws up on the kitchen counter.

“You aren’t getting any of this. You don’t deserve it, Win. Now take Butterscotch and Min and go sit in front of the radio.” He pronounced radio like daddy-o, his Southern accent dripping when he was home alone. He watches the meat roast softly, as he mixed up some beef livers and crackers for the dogs before taking it out and sniffing it. He was no great cook, that was true, but any boy that had grown up in backwoods Louisiana could pop meat in the oven and get it golden and crispy.

Even if the meat had been cut from a runner’s thigh.

__X

Secretly, Will had always been fond of the impossible.

Impossible was Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham eating at a table, Will almost chuckled. Hannibal Lecter was a man of obviously strict principles, yet a man who seemed somehow soft underneath – like caramel. Will used a knife to slit the throats of his victims before he makes them into easy, simple dishes. He watches the psychiatrist eat the slice of thigh and he thinks that he wants to feed him more. Impossible was Hannibal smiling at Will and complimenting him on the fantastic meal. Impossible was Will Graham feeling a touch of something that wasn’t hate, something that wasn’t the emotion he copied blatantly from criminals.

“Will, you must definitely cook for me again.” Hannibal lays down his napkin and looks at Will honestly. Jack had never looked at him that openly before. Will feels wanting. “It was most enjoyable, the pork. I look forward to eating this again.”

“Oh, next time I’ll make something nicer. More tender?” Will bit down on the word ‘tender.’ Maybe a woman, or a soft, malleable man would become his next masterpiece. “I’m glad you enjoyed it though, Doctor.”

Honesty tasted like bile on Will’s tongue.

“Will, you have cooked for me.” Hannibal smiles and removed his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. It was almost endearing, Will thinks, and he moves closer to the psychiatrist. He wants to touch the small scar the glasses left on his nose. “That makes us friends. Friends can’t call each other _Doctor_ Lecter.”

“So is it Hannibal?” Will grins, and he wonders if the doctor notices how close they were. This. This was his design, he realizes. Hannibal Lecter, with his glasses and sheepish smile – that was Will’s design. “All right then. But you’ve always called me Will.”

“Perhaps I have always wanted to become your friend.” There is something other than friendship in his tone, Will thinks. Or he wishes. He moves even closer to Hannibal, far too close, closer than two men should stand. Impossible was the degree to which they stood so close together; Will feels an urge to grab the hand of the other. He wants to be kissed. He wants to be kissed now. But Hannibal only smiles again (he smiles too much. What does he have to smile about?) and shoves the spectacles up his nose – the magic is lifted and the Impossible is gone. He steps back and arranges the dirty plates, stacking them.

“Do you want me to help?” Will asks.

“Oh, you have already cooked for me. Next time you cook for me, I will perhaps permit you to do the dishes.” Hannibal says, a little too quickly, and Will feels inadequate. He wanted to be kissed. But he, the killer with the red hands and blue eyes, he has not been kissed, and he is standing in Lecter’s kitchen with a want burning acid in his gut. He makes his excuses, and they stand at the door. New. Friends.

“Our session’s next Wednesday, isn’t it?” Will asked, throwing words into the air. He has been awkward all his life, except when he tears into throats and gouges out eyes.

“Hopefully our friendship will not interfere with that.” Hannibal smiles, and waves Will down the road.

__X

“I’ve been having nightmares.” Will admits, three weeks and three sessions later. He does not feel more open with Hannibal after the declaration of friendship, no, he feels the same. Perhaps, he thinks – it is because he has always felt bare and open next to the therapist. “Terrible ones. Can’t sleep. I’ve been walking at night. Sleepwalking, you know, since I was a kid, but suddenly it’s a lot worse.”

“I see.” Hannibal frowns and makes a note. “These nightmares. Tell me.”

In them, Will is terrifyingly himself, with his blinding blue eyes and sharp teeth, tearing into throats. Throttling strangers who ran into his path, awakening at night. Those dreams do not frighten him because he is not afraid of himself, oh no, Will Graham has never felt guilt toward the meat he fried. What frightened him, however, was the absence of other people in the dreams. There had always been passerby when he had dreamed of himself killing, but nowadays, the absence of people in those night terrors terrified him. The absence of a paddle, perhaps, was what caused him to wake up outside the house.

“Just ordinary nightmares.” Will lied smoothly. “Nothing to be frightened of. Just the sleepwalking and the frequencies are rather unsavory. Jack’s going crazy, what with those new Ripper killings.”

“Ripper killings?” Hannibal asked politely.

“Men and women torn up and bloody on roads and trees. Organs missing. Flesh missing. They suspect a cannibal.” Will said proudly, omitting the fact that he was the one that cut away the organs and hung the bodies.

“Cannibals?” Hannibal’s lip twisted in seeming disgust. “I see. And they need you to see into this cannibal’s mind, Will?”

“Of course.” Will’s voice touched sarcasm, but didn’t dive into it yet. “I’m the man for the job, after all. Ready made.”

I am the man, Will grins, literally.

“Ah.” Hannibal shakes his head and frowns, before handing Will a notebook and a pen. It was an ordinary lined book, hardback, but when Will took it, he thought he could feel the warmth of Hannibal’s fingers on the black spine. It reminds him of his yearning for a kiss, that night, and anger laces itself into his bones.

“What’s the book for?” Will asks, embarrassment over the memory making his tone brusque.

“Will, I want you to try and draw me a clock.” Hannibal pushed the wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, and brushed his hair off his forehead. “The time now, and just… a simple clock will suffice.”

Will grits his teeth and draws the clock.

When Hannibal takes it back, his eyes widen slightly, but he closes the notebook, and smiles at Will, before writing the name of a hospital on a piece of paper, tearing it off and giving it to Will. He revels in the touch and wonders when he had become this desperate. It had the name of a pricey medical hospital close by, Johns Hopkins, the one with students, Will remembered.

“What’s this for?”

“I’ll make you an appointment with Donald Sutherland.” Hannibal hands over a business card. “A very straightforward, blunt man, but he’s a good doctor. I have a feeling, Will, that your nightmares aren’t all due to Jack’s forcing you in the direction of criminals.”

“So you’re telling me I go to this doctor and he’ll tell me how I’m certifiably insane?”

“No.” Hannibal smiles again, and Will gripped the paper tightly. “Quite the contrary, I suspect an actual physical condition. Which is why I’m referring you to the neurosurgeon. I’d gone to school with him, in Johns Hopkins.”

“Wait, you went to school here? Med school?” Will asks, as he got up to leave, placing down his customary glass of wine and cramming the business card and note in his pocket. “I always thought you were German, or Dutch or something.”

“Lithuanian, Will. Your American tendency not to know accents is very blatant.”

Hannibal never closes the door until Will is out of sight.

__X

The brain scan makes Will feel somehow violated. As if he were being probed and prodded when he knew full well that all the scan measured was his brain images, or whatever the medical folk knew it as. He felt as if all his tendency to kill and maim, all his desire to tear out throats and roast kidneys, all his wanting to be simply _kissed_ by a bespectacled psychiatrist with the _Lithuanian_ accent – he feels as if they were all being violated by the balding neurosurgeon Sutherland who made him turn this way and that. He hates him.

As revenge, Will signs into the FBI website, the one they had connected with the French Interpol, thus enabling the countries to access every single person’s files and records in the entirety of Europe as well as America. He types in Hannibal Lecter – he wants to find out more, finding out more could lead to him knowing about the tall man with the flashing, instant smile and the tendency to push up his glasses even when they were already high up on his nose. He knows all the therapists quirks, he observed him during sessions with a killer’s eye, he knows how Lecter taps his foot to a silent melody and how he wipes his mouth obsessively after he drinks at meals. He knows all these idiosyncrasies by simply being a friend and murderer, but he wants to know more.

The words _Hannibal Lecter, Lithuania, 41_ turns up two results, and Will clicks on the first one. It was short and to the point, stating the occupation and death of a well endowed Count, somewhere during the Soviet occupation. The biography was extensive, dealing with land owned, and building bought, as well as farms sold. Will feels a shiver run down his back as he looks at the picture of a bearded man with genial eyes and absurd cheekbones – somehow he looks exactly the opposite from Will’s own father. He goes back and clicks the next result – and the story is far sadder.

It shows an older picture of Hannibal, his hair somehow blonder, smiling slightly in the white coat that interning doctors wore. His hair fell into his eyes and his glasses were blocking the photographers view of his eyes – and it was with a clench of his gut that Will turns away from the picture and looks at the data. It told of Hannibal Lecter, aged six, who ran away with his parents from the safety of their castle. Richest family in Lithuania, they said, as Will read on, and they had ran to escape the Soviet occupation. Father and mother killed by a rogue explosion, and Lecter and the “infant Mischa Lecter” as the site called her, had not been heard of till Robert Lecter – another Count, adopted the adolescent Hannibal.

From then on, the biography listed mainly the schools and awards Hannibal won, starting from competitions and exams in France, to a prestigious scholarship to America. Golden boy, Will thinks with a scoff, and a close of the eyes. Studied medicine in the exclusive Johns Hopkins university while undertaking an ESL course to improve language skills, moved on to the internship and practiced as a general surgeon for five years. It listed that he had performed commendably, leading to another scholarship for his Psychiatry specialization, et cetera, et cetera, more listing of a perfect boy’s perfect schooling. Will grits his teeth. How. How has a person who was affected by bombings and dead parents and probably starvation turn out to be the golden student, the doctor, the odd psychiatrist that Will wants to be kissed by? And how come Will Graham, who was a killer at night, who was an actual cannibal who fed people the stripped meat of others, how come he did not have anything in his past except for divorced parents? He feels robbed of a turbulent past.

He clicks on the link for Mischa Lecter but it doesn’t exist.

__X

The doorbell rings, and Will opens the door to find Hannibal there, holding a casserole of some kind that Will recognized to be his own dish, and Hannibal smiled at him. Clad in corduroy trousers and a white, buttoned shirt, he looked terrifyingly out of place in Will’s wooded home, and the man stood and stared.

“Hello.” He said finally. “Um. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to return your dish.” Hannibal brandished the appliance, and followed Will into the house. “I’ve made something, as it’s rude to return an empty dish.”

“Oh?” Will frowned, and cleared a space at his table. Thank _God_ Hannibal hadn’t come at night, when Will was absorbed in less honorable pursuits than making sandwiches for lunch. “What did you make, then?”

“Cake.” It looked terribly endearing, Hannibal Lecter holding the dish with cake inside, and Will does not want to be kissed in this moment, he wants to hold the therapist till he burns. “You made me cake.”

“I could not think of anything else.” Hannibal admitted sheepishly, placing the cake down and sitting down at the table. “It appears we’ll have to have it for dessert.”

“Dess---“ Will looked confused, he was not used to kindness, after all, and gave a start. “Oh, dessert. Of course. Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“Yes.” Hannibal nodded, and turned to the cacophony of barks that accompanied the dogs that bounded into the room, wagging their tails excitedly, and licking Hannibal’s fingers. “Will, you did not tell me you have dogs!”

Winston climbed on Hannibal’s lap and put his paws on the table, causing Will to roll his eyes. When had his life changed from a bleak expanse of murder…to this? He shooed the dogs out, shutting them in the other room. He had to drag Winston out by the tail, the canine adamant on discovering the food that the new friend brought.

“They just really sniff out food anywhere. Rather crap guard dogs they are. Especially Winston.” Will wiped his hands on a cloth and turned his back to Hannibal as he made another set of sandwiches since there were two of them. “Sorry, I just have sandwiches though. Beef.”

He lies.

“Hope you don’t mind that, Hannibal.” Will brought out the plates and placed one in front of each of their chairs.

“Oh, no. Sandwiches used to be my standard fare when I worked in the ER.” Hannibal picked one up and bit into it appreciatively. “I remember packing them in bags and eating them hurriedly during the five minute lunch break.”

“Five minutes?” Will raised his eyebrows as he took another sandwich, biting into what once was a woman’s leg. “And you survived like this for five years?”

“Four.” Hannibal corrected, before frowning as if he remembered something. “Oh, Will, that reminded me. I received back the results of your brain scan. You have a mild case of encephalitis.”

“Does that mean I’ll die or something?” Will pauses mid-bite. Mortality frightens him, his own more than anyone else’s.

“No.” Hannibal smiles, and it looks dear enough that Will stopped grimacing. “It’s brain fever. Antibiotics treat it usually, and it’s a purely physical condition. I’ll write to the pharmacy for you, for the medicines, but it should be cured completely over a course of a few weeks.”

“Oh.” Will whistles, finishing his sandwiches and dusting his hands. “Right. So it’s not Jack’s fault after all. He’ll be _so_ thrilled.”

“He should be, yes.” Hannibal considers. “Oh, how is your Ripper case? Have you caught the culprit?”

“No.” Will bites his lip. “We’re expecting a body to drop soon, though.”

It would, if Will had a role in it.

“Ah. Timing, isn’t it. Now what say you, Will,” Hannibal opens the casserole. “We try my cake?”

“I’d say we should slice it, but it’s quite small, and we’re going to Hell anyway, so let’s just dig in.” Will hands a fork to Hannibal and began shoveling cake into his mouth, not noticing that Hannibal was staring at him eat more than he was eating himself. For all his faults, for all the people he had killed in cold blood, Will could be captivating at the best of times.

“It’s delicious.” Will wiped his mouth with a napkin, and grinned at Hannibal. “You should definitely make me cake more often.”

“I will, if you come over.” Hannibal smiles, and this time, he moves toward Will. He takes the younger man’s rough cheek in his hand and strokes his jaw, and brings his lips to Will’s cheek. He kisses Will’s cheekbones and his dark brows, before kissing each eyelid softly. Finally, he presses his lips against Will’s own – finally – Will feels like a hand being clasped. He is complete, the burning hole inside him somehow seared and fixed together, there is no more yearning for the kiss, because here it is – tangible and burning deliriously in their mouths. Hannibal holds the back of Will’s neck and draws him closer till their bodies touch, they stand, and entwine arms. The kiss does not break, as tongues are introduced and hair is pushed out of faces, and it continues – on and on and on till Hannibal pulls away, and pushes his glasses up his nose, flattened his scuffed hair. This time, however, Will does not feel as if the magic broke, he feels more like the curse has just been cast.

“Strange friendship, is it not?” Hannibal smiles, and Will moves his head forward to touch their lips together once more.

“I’d wanted this, honestly.” Will admitted, as Hannibal walked to the door, and into his car. “For quite a while.”

“So have I, Will.”

__X

“The antibiotics are – frankly annoying.” Will complained. Their relationship, four weeks onward, had progressed from frenzied kisses to frustrated gnashing of lips and pulling of hair, and Will killed more and more people, the Ripper getting messier and messier, bloody, horrible killings that made Alana Bloom cry in the office once. “I mean, there’s eighteen tablets. A day.”

“You do have encephalitis, Will.” Hannibal shrugged. “It’s either eighteen tablets, or they drip the medicine into you.”

“Oh, very droll.” Will smirked, before standing up and walking toward Hannibal’s chair. “I mean, how am I to concentrate on things when I have to constantly remind myself to eat those pills? How do I focus on catching the Ripper, how do I focus on not letting my dogs shit everywhere, and how the hell do I focus on my therapy sessions?”

“Well, Will, I did not know my sessions were so hard to focus on. Maybe I’ll teach you a way to stay focused.” Hannibal smiled, and grasped out suddenly, pulling Will onto his lap. Will fell onto the rigid thighs with a laugh – where was this session going? Hannibal began kissing the back of Will’s neck, running his teeth along the bones and sucking hard, leaving marks that would darken tomorrow.

“All right. Didn’t know you were a teacher.” Will arched his back, pressing his skin against Hannibal’s teeth. He was hard in his pants, simply from Hannibal biting him and sucking on the back of his neck – Will inflicted pain, not suffered it. Yet the tenting in his boxers said otherwise, as Hannibal’s hands moved from his collarbones downward, fingering Will’s buttons, un-tucking his shirt, and pressing his hand on the bulge at his groin.

“Tell me. Make me stop, Will.” Hannibal groans, his words making spots in Will’s brain. Don’t. Don’t ever stop.

“Go on.” Will whispers, as Hannibal unbuttons the man’s pants and fingers his semi erect cock through the fabric of his briefs, reaches under them to cup his balls and squeeze them, almost feather-light yet still tangible. Will thrusts slightly, oh, he had not experienced such a sexual onslaught of emotion in a long time, only frenzies of murder. Hannibal strokes Will slightly through the briefs, his hand gentle and warm. Will knows now why he was so respected as a doctor – the man had tremendous hands. Hannibal drags his nails across the tip of Will’s cloth, and a spot of precome wets his briefs. He takes Will out of his underwear, and grasps him in his hand, moving his curled fist from the sticky slit to the thatch of curly black hair at his crotch, slowly increasing the pressure of his fist till Will feels he would cry.

He is not used to this, not used to having his sexual experiences being controlled, but he likes it. He feels as if someone (Hannibal) is murdering him as he murders others, sucking the life out of him with his wet mouth and eager, firm hands. He feels Lecter’s spectacles touch his cheek and he throws his head back as Hannibal’s hand moves faster, more slick now with the anticipation of release. Hannibal’s teeth grind on Will’s neck,  he knows he will look a mess tomorrow, but he does not care – he is totally undone in this therapist’s lap, his cock sticking up, reddened and tensed, and Hannibal’s hand moves faster and faster. Will rubs himself on Hannibal’s thighs as the man pumps his cock harder and harder – till he is at the peak, panting as if he would never walk again, his chin touching the fabric of his shirt. Hannibal strokes him till the last, shuddering spasm rips through him, and there is sticky come over Lecter’s hand, over his own cock, but he is happy, oh God, he feels _human_.

“How do you do this?” Will murmurs unconsciously, as Hannibal wipes his fingers with the tissues by his table. Will buttons himself up, deciding to clean up later, and turns, still in Hannibal’s lap. He looks into the man’s eyes, a soft kiss – as if to thank him.

“And how do _you_ do it, Will?” Hannibal smiles back, before disposing of the tissue. “These are for my patients to cry with, not for me to wipe away the remnants of your disgrace.”

“Disgrace, my foot.” Will snorted, as Hannibal rose, and kissed him again, a whole, longing kiss – nothing too sexual. Will feels the tent in Hannibal’s own boxers, the man did not pleasure himself while letting Will reach the limits of the universe, and he shudders again from how _unselfish_ one could be.

“I’m sorry.” Will smirks at Lecter’s pants, and feels genuinely apologetic. “Should I finish that off for you?”

“No need. I’ll see to it later.” Hannibal straightens his glasses, and trails a hand across Will’s sweaty cheek. “This. Your face. It’ll see me through a million nights of loneliness.”

Don’t.

Don’t love me, Will thinks, feverishly, desperately.

__X

Will drives slowly, two weeks later, ignoring the philharmonic orchestra of barks behind him. He uses this time to think instead. He does not need a silent space to plot murder like most killers, he can ponder in the presence of Winston’s yipping bark, and Darcie’s sonic booms, it is home for him. But today, he does not plot murder. Murder was easy and simple – murder is simply killing and cooking and leaving them to bleed and weep. Simple. He thinks of Hannibal Lecter, and what he had said.

_Your face. It’ll see me through a million nights of loneliness._

It was not what sexual partners said. It was a declaration of love, and Will’s hand shivers on the steering wheel. He cannot love. Someone cannot love him. Jack was already suspecting him, and it was enough to send him to prison. They would connect the cases soon, and Will could not stop killing. He would _not._ So he cannot be Loved, and he cannot love. He can fuck, and he can talk but he cannot fall into arms and he cannot think of Hannibal at night. But he does.

And he is driving two hours to Baltimore simply to see him.

“Will, what a surprise. Have you come to make me dinner?” Hannibal smiles, looking as put together as he usually did. He used a finger to poke his glasses higher as Will tried on a smile, and now it does not feel out of practice.

“No. But do you want to walk my dogs?” Will points to the car, where Winston’s head stuck out. “They’ve been quite restless, and it would be a treat for them to run around in the woods.”

“A treat for me as well.” Hannibal closed the door behind him, and smiled (his teeth glint in the setting sun and Will wants to own this man). “I’ll come immediately. Let’s go.”

“Winston likes you a lot.” Will said later, as they walked in the open plain, the dogs let out and bounding freely. They would come at Will’s whistle. They always did. Hannibal walked beside him, his lips slightly blue from the cold and his glasses fogged over, and he looked terribly captivating. He wanted to draw Hannibal, if only had he the talent to sketch. He looked so human and so flawed, so unselfishly beautiful that Will wants to own him. He feels inadequate.

“I like Winston.” Hannibal replied simply. “He’s an intelligent animal.”

“Not really a good guard dog, however.”

“It’s true dogs were initially domesticated to serve as guardians of homes.” Hannibal mused. “But slowly, mankind came to realize that the dog, so different from wolves and jackals, had a true notion of loyalty and friendship to the owner – that guarding houses became a second priority.”

“They’re linear.” Will agreed. “Straight and true. Unlike human relationships.”

“What we have, Will.” Hannibal turns to face the killer. “Is it not straight and true?”

“I want to say yes.” Will admits. “I really do.”

Stop making me tell the truth.

“I know.” Hannibal smiles again, and his glasses catch a reflection of the dying sun, obscuring his brown eyes.

“Jack suspects me.” Will says brusquely, kicking a rock in the grass. “Of being the bloody Ripper. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t.” Hannibal shrugs a shoulder. “Jack Crawford seems to be an incredibly scrupulous man, one with firm, set-in-stone principles. Whatever that seems different, such as you, my love, with your capacity for seeing into a criminal, whatever that seems different is terrible.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Will grins, with half his mouth. “Alana was so excited when she found out I was seeing you. I told her, naturally.”

“Ah, Alana Bloom. A wonderful mentee to have. Finished her thesis in perfect time, fully spell-checked.” Hannibal chuckled, his hand touching Will’s chin.

“Yeah. That was probably after your scholarship for specialization, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.” A slight stiffening. “How do you know I got a scholarship?”

“I did some reading up.” Will bit his lip. Guilt tasted raw in his mouth, like salmon. “On you.”

“I wasn’t aware I was a subject of newspapers.” Hannibal said easily, but there was an undertone of curiosity in his voice.

“Interpol.” Will smirked. “Had to make sure you had no kinks in your past before I dated you, didn’t I?”

“And you did find kinks, didn’t you?” Hannibal’s voice was sterner, sounding somehow angry. He turned slightly away from Will. “You found a whole array of bent, dented kinks.”

“Yes.” Will didn’t deny.

“Then why do you still see me?” Hannibal pushed his hands into his coat pockets, and Will does not know whether it was simply the cold, or maybe a childish display of anger, but he knows he loves the man. He loves the sheepish smiling and kisses, he loves the spectacles that Lecter pushes up his nose. The quirks and idiosyncrasies, the ink on his cuffs and fingers, the maudlin eyes. He loves them far too much to be sane.

“Because.” Will says, and puts his arms around Hannibal from the back. It was an odd position, as Will was shorter, but he doesn’t want to face him just yet. He doesn’t want to look at the sun glinting off the glasses because he would be compelled to hold the moment in his mind. He killed. He hurt. He did not hurt himself.

“Because?” asked Hannibal.

“Just because.”

__X

He’d always known that he’d kill Dr. Sutherland one day. The doctor’s briskness, his presence irritated him somehow. So Will, under the pretense of dinner at his home, now runs a knife across Sutherland’s throat, feeling the blood coat his hands. He is finally Red-Handed Will, eyes of ice and hands of fire. He is no longer poor, in-love Will Graham, he is no longer longing and loving, he is spite and murder. He tastes the blood on his hand, and as Sutherland bleeds till his eyes are glassy and gone. He takes out a sharper knife and tears off the doctor’s shirt. He wants the heart tonight. He plunges the knife in, after all, it was a Ripper killing, messy and bloody and raw. He carves and cuts, his knees coated in blood and flesh, until he hears:

“Will---“ There is a smashed dish of food on the floor, and Hannibal’s wide maroon eyes behind glasses.

Will feels tears rise to his throat, and he pushes the knife into Sutherland again, cutting out the heart.

“Will-“ Hannibal’s voice rises as he slumps against the doorframe. “Oh---God.”

“You don’t believe in God.” Will looks up, and the tears spill down his cheeks. He hates himself, but his throat closes up and his eyes burn. He moves toward his lover, his hands coated in blood. He draws near, and takes Hannibal’s hand in his.

“Will—“ He repeats the infernal name. “Is that Dr. Sutherland?”

“I’d wanted to kill him for a bit.” Will said quietly, his hand coating Lecter’s in blood. “I don’t like him.”

“The Ripper.” Hannibal breathes out, and sweat coats his upper lip, his glasses fog over. He has a civilian’s fear, and Will wants to hold him till the lines blur between them. Will takes off Hannibal’s glasses and places them on the table. He wants to see fear in his eyes.

“Yes. The Ripper.” Will’s face crumples, and tears touch his cheek. His voice is a sob, and he _cannot_ stop this childish show of emotion. He has loved and this was his punishment. “Turn me in. Go ahead. Call Jack.”

“I must-“ Hannibal stops, his throat working hard. His eyes glass over and he glances away, gritting his teeth. Don’t, Will thinks. Don’t leave.

“I-“ Hannibal breathes in and closes his eyes, before turning back to Will. “You could have told me. I- I was terribly blind.”

“You can see now.” Will sobs. “You can see, can’t you my _love_?”

“I can’t.” Hannibal’s voice is a rush of ragged breath, and he presses his lips hard against Will’s, bruising and needy – raw. Will’s bloody hands grasp Hannibal’s cheek and draw him closer, smearing red on the man’s sharp cheekbones. Hannibal’s eyes are wild and broken as he kisses Will again, hard, his nails digging into the Ripper’s neck. Will pulls him away from Sutherland’s body, into the bedroom as he pulls away and hungrily tears off his own shirt, his nipples erect and yearning on his hairless chest.

“Do you eat them?” Hannibal gasps, as he unbuttons his own shirt, biting into Will’s neck softly, running his teeth along the cords of muscle.

“Yes.” Will admits. “And feed them to people.”

“To me?” Hannibal’s shirt is off and the hair on his torso glimmers in sweat (from terror – Will thinks with a stab of not-guilt), he pulls Will to him and kisses him repeatedly, on the cheek, the neck, the chin – so reminiscent of their first kiss.

“Yes.” Will feels something solid sink in him as he says it, and his hands are cold. Hannibal makes a soft retching sound in his throat and his eyes close, but he does not stop kissing Will, and Will is pushed back onto the roughness of the bed. Hannibal levers himself over him, Will can feel the hardness of his length through his silk trousers, but he does not notice, no, Hannibal keeps touching Will, kissing him again and again as if to make sure he is real, that he is there. Will tugs off his pants and tosses them aside, rubs his cock with his hand in anticipation. Hannibal removes his own trousers, frees his cock (“Oh God”, Will thinks), and moves his mouth downward across Will’s body, kissing the trail of hair to his cock, and taking it whole into his mouth.

He gags for a second (perhaps in memory of the people he ate with Will), but he takes Will wholly into his mouth and squeezes gently with his tongue. He moves his mouth backward, runs his tongue over Will’s glittering slit, and takes him all the way down again, his throat muscles contracting against Will’s cock, making the murderer stain the sheets with sweat and move his head back, his eyes glittering feverishly. Hannibal runs his teeth along Will’s precome and saliva covered head again, and Will lets out a sobbing moan when the other man removes his mouth.

“Cannibal.” The therapist spits wildly, his lips curled in a snarl and his cock erect, begging to fuck. Will was in love, oh he was too far in love. Hannibal touches Will’s cock again, grasps the shaft in his hand and thrusts twice as he had once done in the sanctity of his office, and Willis so close, he would come- now, now. But he doesn’t, as Hannibal removes his hand.

“You criminal.” Hannibal’s eyes flash as he whispers the words at Will, terror sweat dripping from his brow. “Fucking---fucking liar.”

The swear word from the perfect lips would make him come, had only been Hannibal touching him, and the older man noticed, his eyes glittering.

“You fucking criminal. Murderer.” Hannibal’s hands are rough and strong as he bodily lifts Will to turn him over, and Will gets on all fours as if by instinct, his head hanging low and his cock sticking up, terribly close to orgasm. Hannibal slides a wet finger into Will, slowly, and finds that it was quite easy to get in, and he slides in three fingers for a tighter fit, slowly exploring Will’s insides, feeling the muscles clench in response – oh, how it must feel on his cock.

“Been fucking yourself thinking of me, haven’t you?” Hannibal smirks, and in a swift move, opens Will’s bedside drawer, bringing out a thick, plastic dildo. He covered it in lube and left Will on all fours as he showed him the toy. “Been using this, haven’t you? Have you fantasized about killing me?”

He slides the toy slowly into Will, watching the muscles expand and contract.

“Yes.” Will sobbed. “Yes. I have.”

“How?”

“With my hands.”

Hannibal slides the dildo out, slick from Will, and watches Will’s hole gape for a second, he is so---perfect. Yet he kills. Hannibal thrusts it into the man again and again with a feverish, ferocious delight, his eyes burning and jaw working, his own cock sticking straight up toward his stomach.

“Please---“ Will begs.

He takes the toy out for the last time, and he looks at Will – wide open and yearning. He slides himself inside, Will’s muscles clenched around his cock, and Will is burning and blooming, he comes in two thrusts, as Hannibal pinches his nipples hard enough to make tears come to his eyes – but they were already there. Will sobs as he comes, his seed dripping onto the sheets as he rides out the orgasm, but Hannibal does not stop, he keeps banging himself into the other, the raw slap of skin against skin echoing around the room. Will lets out a sigh as Hannibal finishes with a cry, he can feel the psychiatrist’s come inside him (he wants it to stay a part of him, but as Hannibal pulls out, he begins leaking almost immediately.)

Will turns over to face Hannibal, who collapses beside him, and he does nothing except stare and stare, at his beautiful lover, the scar between his eyes and the awkward smile that was no longer on his lips. Will wants to love and be loved, but he has hands that maim, hands that kill.

“How do you do it?” Hannibal whispers again to his lover, an echo of what he had once said while walking the dogs (it seems so terribly long ago). “How?”

“I don’t know.” Will’s lips tremble as Hannibal rests his head on Will’s shoulder.

“Don’t give me your criminal food, Will.” Hannibal swallows visibly. “Not human flesh. Don’t.”

“Even if you don’t know it?” Will coaxes, but that is enough, acceptance. A routine. It’s all he wants. “Even if I don’t tell you?”

“Never.” Hannibal says roughly, and his voice wavers, he turns away. Will gives him a moment, before satisfying his curiosity.

“Why not?”

“My sister. You’ve read my records, haven’t you?” Hannibal turns back to Will, and touches his cheek – his touch gentle and lover-like again.

“Yes. The link for her doesn’t exist.”

“She was never found.” Hannibal explains. “Will, she went missing. She was five years old.”

“What does that have to do with eating human flesh?”

“She—“ Hannibal breathes in again. “It was cold, Will. This was in Lithuania, right below Russia, and the winters are so solid that the cold feels like a demon. There was hunger. The men who hid us away. Who kept us safe – they got hungry too. Too hungry that they couldn’t sleep. Mischa and I, we could not sleep either.”

“What happens?” Will dare not speak louder than a whisper. Their curse might break.

“Hunger does strange things to men. I don’t blame them. Not in the least – they were hungry. They were cold and freezing and they had two random children they had to look after. So they did what was best. They took Mischa away. She—she needed glasses, like I do. Even at five years old.”

Will frowns.

“She couldn’t see where they were taking her. The men in an act of compassion had broken her beautiful pink glasses. The snow blinded her, but not me. I saw them kill her, and build a fire. They ate my sweet sister, I ate her, and sweet she must have tasted to us in the crawling, screaming moments of hunger. I don’t know how I survived, Will. The hunger was so terrible.”

“Even the snake bitten man finds sleep, but never the hungry.” Will quoted softly.

“That’s why I never want you to cook for me. Never, Will. Never human flesh.” Hannibal insists, there is a grieving sort of fire in his eyes, and Will obeys. But there is something he doesn’t understand, as he looks at Hannibal’s strong, tortured face. At the way his voice did not shake as he described what happened to the little girl with blonde hair and pink glasses. He doesn’t understand something.

“Why am I the one that murders?” Will asks, feeling the traitorous tears slide down his face again. How does he feel ever so much? “Why do I murder and kill people, and delight in watching their blood pool in my hands, when you have the ruined---tattered past? When you are the one who could be justified killing and eating other men, why do _I_ do it?”

“Because I never blamed the hungry men.” Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head. “And you blame every single person in the world.”

__X

Will used to have Indian neighbors in Louisiana as a child. They were different-skinned, and that was enough to get racist remarks hurled at them by men who later went home to beat their wives. The little girl who wore knee-length socks would have her plaits cut off by red-cheeked, blonde girls who sneered at the way the girl would pore over the books and beat them all in exams. The boys of the family would never be invited to play football by neither the white kids or the black kids – only Will Graham would play with them, whooping and hollering over goals, because only Will Graham (who would grow up to be a murderer) saw that the whoops and screams they made over kicking a ball was similar to the voices every other child made.

He remembers, now, that that Indian family had a saying. Being their only “white _beta_ ” (white son), he had often eaten their sweet smelling, wonderfully spiced food with them and he had seen the petrol soaked rags hurled into their windows, little girls vandalizing young Preeti’s notes with the stabbing words “Return to your country.” This _is_ our country, the boys would spit as they viciously kicked balls into a touchdown. But they had a saying, all of them, even as the father (who studied in Harvard University) got tossed from job to job, and the mother (a doctor) sat at home listening to the way her children would get beaten. But they always had a saying, in their lilting, exotic language. _Zendagi migzara._ It meant, simply, _life goes on_.

Life went on for Will and Hannibal, in the same way life must have gone on for that family. There were moments in which Hannibal looked at food with fear, yet steadfastly pushed his glasses up his nose and ate it, commenting on the flavor. Moments in which they made love, not frenzied like the first time, but sweet and longing and slow. There were moments that they fought over the three people that Will had killed since, but promised not to serve to Hannibal.

Life goes on.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.” Will smirked, as Hannibal played soft notes that made even Will’s dreary living room sound beautiful. “It’s quite good.”

“It is.” Hannibal agreed proudly, but got up from the piano, and switched on the DVD player. He selected a slow record, a sort of revolving, looping waltz that filled the room and escaped from the keyholes. “But this is better.”

He moves toward Will, smiling.

“May I have this dance?” He asks, and clasps Will’s hands in his own. They would never do this in public, he would never be able to do something like this in public because of stigma and prejudice, so they danced in the waltz of their home. Hannibal swayed closer to Will, his glasses reflecting the firelight, their foreheads close to touching.

“I love you.” Will whispers, and the words do not taste bitter in his throat.

“I love you. Aš tave myliu.” Hannibal tells Will softly, as the music danced into the room. They went on like this for hours and hours, even as the record sputtered to a stop – they carried on dancing to no music. Loving Hannibal, Will thinks, is like dancing to no music. It is pointless, but you do so anyway.

Life goes on, Will thinks with a smirk.

__X

“Hello. Hannibal?” Will’s voice was urgent, crackling down the line. “I’m at the BSHCI. This is the only call I’m allowed. I’m sorry.”

“What? The BSHCI?” Hannibal’s voice was alert. “Will??”

“They _think_ I’m the Ripper.” Will whispers urgently. “They have no evidence. I’m fucking paying Chilton to let me use the phone, so there’s obviously not a terribly strong case. But once they look at my house, they’ll know it’s me.”

“Will, let me come.” Hannibal sounded feverish, or maybe it was just the distance. “Let me talk to Jack, I’ll vis---“

“No!” Will almost yells. “This is _my_ game. Not yours. I don’t want you in a cell opposite mine.”

“Will—“

Will sits on his hard bed with glassy eyes. He cannot go on loving and living. This is what happens when you love, he thinks spitefully, this is what happens when you lose yourself. He had gotten careless in his murders, because he was oh, so far in love with the way the light flashed off Hannibal’s glasses and the way the sun shone into his hair. He curls his hands into veined fists.

He does not know what to do.

_Your face? It is enough for a million lonely nights._

He grits his teeth as his throat burns, he has killed nearly a hundred men, but he cannot seem to get rid of raging, feverish tears. His hands shake as he thinks of the way Winston would be walked by a Hannibal who now was not the only one who knew his secret. He does not regret. He wants to kill, but he cannot, not in this room of glass and stone. Let me out, he thinks. I must make something bleed.

He sleeps deliriously.

When he wakes, Chilton was unlocking the door.

“What?” Will asks blearily, his hand rubbing his eyes. Is this still the stuff of fevered dreams?

“You’re free to go apparently.” Chilton rolls his eyes. “Not even a trial.”

“Why?” Jack would obviously not let this go so easily, and once they had searched his house, they had more than enough evidence for convicting him.

“Another body dropped. Ripper killing. And obviously, not done by you.” Chilton smirked, as he led Will down the aisle, no need for handcuffs this time, no, Will was a free man.

He drives straight home, and Hannibal opens the door. His house is still the same. No police searches had tarnished the floors, no yellow tape marked off any areas. Winston leaps into the room, and he pats the dog, rubs his fur, and finally, he looks up.

“Didn’t they search the place?” Will asked. “No police?”

“No.” Hannibal said dully, as Will moved closer to embrace him, but finding only stiff shoulders and rigid stances.

“Some fan killed for me tonight.” Will grinned. “Just like I did. He may not have known it, but that just set me free, before fucking Lounds writes about me in her tabloid. Lucky break, I call it.”

“Yes.” The reply comes perfunctorily. “Incredibly so.”

“Hannibal, what is it?” Will laughs nervously. “I’m home. They aren’t coming after us.”

“I know.” Hannibal says. That’s when Will looks past him to the kitchen, messy with blood, and Hannibal’s hands dripping with the same. How hack-knives lay across the floor, covered in bits of flesh. He looks then, at Hannibal to see how the man’s eyes are haunted and burning, how his cheeks are pallid.

That’s when Will sees that he is not the only person who can love too much.

__

“So, we’re leaving.” Hannibal asks smoothly, his head in Will’s lap, the younger man running his fingers through his brown hair. “Where should we go first?”

“Venice?” Will grins. “Or Paris? We’d need disguises first, of course. Maybe I could pull out all your grey hairs.”

“Do that, and I will make sure, Will, that you will not be recognized.” Hannibal adds after a beat. “Because you’ll be bald.”

( _zendagi migzara)_

“Oh. Of course. Tell me when you shave my head.” Will grins, before combing the hair out of Hannibal’s eyes. “Maybe contact lenses for you, and glasses for me, eh?”

“Not _my_ glasses.” Hannibal smirked. “Buy your own, cheap replica.”

“Oh, selfish, aren’t you? Now. What say you we go to Italy. Florence.”

“To see the great artworks, one by one.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding.” Will snorts. “But you can go look at your art all you want.”

“What about your dogs?” Hannibal remembered.

“Alana would look after them. Fancy Winston on a plane.” Will chuckled. “He’d eat all the food, make friends with five people and shit in the cockpit. In ten minutes.”

“I’m glad.” Hannibal sits up and smiles at Will. “I’m very glad, Will.”

“That…Winston would make friends?”

“No. That I killed for you.”

__X

But Hannibal Lecter would be going nowhere.

Will Graham was, first and foremost, a killer. A killer on the run. Killers on the run should not show feeling, should not have knots of emotion in their chests, they should not have yearnings to kiss and fuck and cry. They should travel alone. But how would Will go alone, leaving his lover alone with eleven dogs and a heartache? He could not see the domes and spires of Italy when he knew that Lecter would be sitting here, his hands coated with the memory of the blood he had shed for Will. So it was pure selfish desire, Will tells himself. It was the only thing he could do.

“I’ll take the dogs to Alana.” Hannibal, wearing a white, buttoned shirt and khaki pants, smiled at Will. “I’d like to say goodbye to her.”

“Sure.” Will swallows the mountain in his throat. “Come here. Your collar is off.”

Hannibal comes closer, and Will strikes. The small knife he has in his hand tears through the torso that Will had kissed and licked last night. The therapist shudders in pain, and sweat stands out on his forehead as Will’s forehead crumples in tears. He feels Hannibal’s blood hit the floor, wetting both their shoes, darkening Will’s pants, and oh God, Will cannot stop shaking, he cannot stop hugging Hannibal, holding him to himself. Hannibal’s shoulders shudder, and he’s gasping blood that touches his chin. Will holds his lover’s face in his hands, kisses away the blood on his lips and presses his own to Hannibal’s cheek, again and again. As Lecter slid to the floor, his spectacles slid off his sweating nose and broke on the floor, as did something in Will. He must leave. He cannot stand and cry like a child.

(but he did)

“Why?” Hannibal chokes out, the words staining his lips red. “Why?”

“I was your lover. I loved you.” Will snarls. “I loved you, Hannibal Lecter, which is why I cannot leave with you. I cannot run away knowing that what I take with me could destroy me, could destroy my life in seconds. By killing you, they kill me.”

“You’re killing me now.” Hannibal’s voice breaks and he stares down at the hole in him that spewed blood across his clenched fingers. His labored gasping for breath turned into delirious, desperate sobbing, and he looked up at Will, his face contorted, tears sliding down and mixing with the blood. “Yo—You’re killing me now, Will.”

“It’s what I do.” Will’s fists clench and his eyes are squeezed shut – he does not want to see this, or he may stab the knife into himself, let his own blood pool over Lecter’s so that they both choked on their own life source. But he could not stab himself, no, it was not his fault. Nothing was Will Graham’s fault, after all. Not even the ink-stains on Hannibal’s sleeves that were now marred over by blood. Not the glasses that reflected starlight, firelight, candlelight, now broken on the floor. Not the way Hannibal’s hair hung over his eyes, it was now plastered to his forehead by his own blood and sweat. It was not even his fault, how whatever they had, all the flowers and the food, the piano, the dog walking, the sex, how it all lay in shards before them.

“It’s what I do, Hannibal.” Will’s voice came strangled. “I kill people.”

Lecter’s breathing became hysterical as he choked on more blood, Will did not know whether it was from the weeping or the pain. But Will, his own eyes full, he does not know what to do.

“Hannibal, I don’t know what to do.” He says to the dying man. “I-“

Hannibal’s hands grasp over the ragged wound in his chest.

“I have nowhere to go.” He gasps, his voice torn paper, his eyes raw and beseeching. “I have no one to die for.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t. Don’t leave me, Will Graham.” Hannibal asks again, as more blood stained a circle in his shirt. Will shakes, his hands shake, and he picks up the phone to dial three digits.

“Emergency.” His voice is desperate enough for the call to be classified as urgent, Will knew. “There’s a man in my house. He was stabbed. A mugging. We need paramedics, and shock sets – he’s distressed. Urgent. Please.”

Please, he thinks to himself. But I can’t stop.

“Don’t leave me.” Hannibal begs again as the sirens sound close to the house, the rain spattering over the glass. “Stay.”

“I can’t.” Will’s eyes burn as he backs toward the door. “I can’t stop killing and tearing and making things bleed and break.”

“Stay.” Hannibal’s eyes roll backward in his head, it is frightening. It is the only thing that frightens Will.

“I’ll come back.” He finally tells the truth, and it tastes like honey – sugary and painful. “I’ll be back and we’ll go to Venice. We’ll see art.”

“Contact lenses…” Hannibal speaks into a mouthful of blood.

“And glasses for me.” Will’s face crumples as he leaves. “I’ll be back. I swear.”

He walks out, and the rain doesn’t stop, of course the rain would not stop. He is Will Graham, not God, and as the ambulance stops by the house, Will hides in the shadows, and walks and walks, the rain cleansing the blood and tears but not the burning impact of Hannibal’s kisses, no, they were burned into his skin as if by fire, he is hurting and burning – but he does not feel like a phoenix. He will go back, he knows, in months, when Hannibal’s eyes are light again and all he has is a scar on his stomach. Then he will take them both to Venice, where he will eat human flesh and Hannibal will not. Where he will wear spectacles and Hannibal will not. Where they are both free to love and hate and fuck. But till that scar heals, Will has to take solitary flights and walk alone in the rain. He has to carry only one suitcase. He has to wait, for that scar to heal.

But life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I hope you liked the version of Hannibal's past coming from a not serial killery Hannibal, I've really wanted to write that. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this as much as I loved writing it. It took me two days to actually finish this, since you all requested for the reverse AU and promised you'd read it. I do actually appreciate as many comments as possible, as readers feedback would be fantastic, and I'll be truly grateful for anything you have to say to the story, or to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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